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The Cost of Living: Stories

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The Cost of Living: Stories The Cost of Living: Stories A dissertation submitted to the Graduate School of the University of Cincinnati in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the Department of English & Comparative Literature of the College of Arts and Sciences by David James Poissant M.F.A. University of Arizona June 2011 Committee Chair: Michael Griffith, M.F.A. i Abstract The Cost of Living: Stories is a collection of thematically linked short fiction that explores the drama of the everyday in the lives of children, women, and men. In fifteen stories, The Cost of Living illuminates life in and beyond the contemporary urban and suburban southeastern United States. Characters, plagued by hardships of their own making, struggle with relationships and the demands of family. Animals, too, find their way into the fiction, as characters intrude on the natural world. By turns comic, dramatic, and frightening, and written in modes both realist and experimental, this collection gives voice to the heroes of the conflicts that often go unnoticed in our own backyards. ii iii Acknowledgements “The Heaven of Animals” was published by The Atlantic. “Lizard Man” (Winner: Playboy College Fiction Contest) appeared in Playboy, New Stories from the South 2008, Best New American Voices 2010, and was named a Distinguished Mystery Story of 2007 in Best American Mystery Stories. “Refund” (Third Prize: Atlantic Monthly Student Writing Contest) will appear in One Story. “What the Wolf Wants” appeared in West Branch. “The Caterer” (Winner: Matt Clark Prize) appeared in the New Delta Review. “Lake in Winter” appeared in Iron Horse. “Last of the Great Land Mammals” was awarded the Alice White Reeves Memorial Award from the National Society of Arts & Letters and took Third Prize in the 2010 NSAL National Literature Competition. “Measuring the Drop” appeared in The Greensboro Review. “100% Cotton” will appear in The Southern Review. “This is My Body” appeared in The Pinch. “The Cost of Living” (Finalist: Mississippi Review Prize) appeared in The Mississippi Review. iv CONTENTS 1. Lizard Man 1 2. The Cost of Living 27 3. 100% Cotton 37 4. The Disappearing Boy 42 5. Refund 57 6. What the Wolf Wants 84 7. This is My Body 89 8. The Caterer 95 9. Lake in Winter 110 10. Measuring the Drop 114 11. Last of the Great Land Mammals 133 12. Nudists 150 13. Wake the Baby 188 14. The Fox King: A Fairy Tale 194 15. The Heaven of Animals 206 16. Critical Portion: “Passing Fashions” 248 v LIZARD MAN I rattle into the driveway around sunup and Cam’s on my front stoop with his boy, Bobby. Cam stands. He’s a huge man, thick and muscled from a decade of work in construction. Sleeves of green dragons run armpit to wrist. He claims there’s a pair of naked ladies tattooed into all those scales if you look close enough. When Crystal left him, Cam got the boy, which tells you what kind of a mother Crystal was. Cam’s my last friend. He’s a saint when he’s sober, and he hasn’t touched liquor in ten years. He puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Bobby spins from his grip and charges. He meets me at the truck, grabs my leg and hugs it with his whole body. I head toward Cam. Bobby bounces and laughs with every step. We shake hands, but Cam’s expression is no-nonsense. “Graveyard again?” he says. My apron, rolled into a tan tube, hangs from my front pocket and I reek of kitchen grease. “Yeah,” I say. I haven’t told Cam how I lost my temper and yelled at a customer, how apparently some people don’t know what over easy means, how my agreement to work the ten- to-six shift is the only thing keeping my electricity on and the water running. “Bobby,” Cam says, “go play for a minute, OK?” Bobby releases my leg and stares at his father skeptically. “Don’t make me tell you twice,” Cam says. The boy runs to my mailbox, drops to the lawn, cross-legged, and scowls. “Keep going,” Cam says. Slowly, deliberately, Bobby stands and sulks toward their house. 1 “What is it?” I say. “What’s wrong?” Cam shakes his head. “Red’s dead,” he says. Red is Cam’s dad. “Bastard used to beat the fuck out of me,” Cam said one night back when we both drank too much and swapped sad stories. When he turned 18, Cam enlisted and left for the first Gulf War. The last time he saw his father, the man was staggering, drunk, across the lawn. “Go then!” he screamed. “Go die for your fucking country!” Bobby never knew he had a grandfather. I don’t know whether Cam is upset or relieved, and I don’t know what to say. Cam must see this because he says: “It’s OK. I’m OK.” “How’d it happen?” I ask. “He was drinking,” Cam says. “Bartender said one minute Red was laughing, the next his forehead was on the bar. When they went to shake him awake, he was dead. “Wow.” It’s a stupid thing to say, but I’ve been up all night. My hand still grips an invisible steel spatula. I can feel lard under my nails. “I need a favor,” Cam says. “Anything,” I say. When I was in jail, it was Cam who bailed me out. When my wife and son moved to Baton Rouge, it was Cam who knocked down my door, kicked my ass, threw the contents of my liquor cabinet onto the front lawn, set it on fire, and got me a job at his friend’s diner. “I need a ride to Red’s house,” Cam says. “OK,” I say. Cam hasn’t had a car for years. Half the people on our block can’t afford storm shutters, let alone cars, but it’s St. Petersburg, a pedestrian city, and downtown’s only a five-minute walk. 2 “Well, don’t say OK yet,” Cam says. “It’s in Lee.” “Lee, Florida?” Cam nods. Lee is four hours north, the last city you pass on I-75 before you hit Georgia. “No problem,” I say, “as long as I’m back before ten tonight.” “Another graveyard?” Cam asks. I nod. “OK,” he says, “let’s go.” # Last year, I threw my son through the family room window. I don’t remember how it happened, not exactly. I remember stepping into the room. I remember seeing Jack, his mouth pressed to the mouth of the other boy, his hands moving fast in the boy’s lap. Then I stood over him in the garden. Lynn ran from the house, screaming. She saw Jack and hit me in the face. She battered my shoulders and my chest. Above us, through the window frame, the other boy stood, staring, shaking, hugging himself with his thin arms. Jack lay on the ground. He did not move except for the rise and fall of his chest. The window had broken cleanly and there was no blood, just shards of glass scattered over flowers, but one of Jack’s arms was bent behind his head, as though he had gone to sleep that way, an elbow for a pillow. “Call 911,” Lynn yelled to the boy above. “No,” I said. Whatever else I didn’t know in that time and place, I knew we could never afford an ambulance ride. “I’ll take him,” I said. “No!” Lynn cried. “You’ll kill him!” “I’m not going to kill him,” I said. “Come here.” I gestured to the boy. He shook his head and stepped back. “Please,” I said. 3 Tentatively, the boy stepped over the jagged edge of the sill. He planted his feet on the brick ledge of the front wall, then dropped the few feet to the ground. Glass crunched beneath his sneakers. “Grab his ankles,” I said. I hooked my hands under Jack’s armpits and we lifted him. One arm trailed the ground as we walked him to the car. Lynn opened the hatchback. We laid Jack in the back and covered him with a blanket. It seemed like the right thing, what you see on TV. A few neighbors had come outside to watch. We ignored them. “I’ll need you with me,” I said to the boy. “When we’re done, I’ll take you home.” The boy was wringing the hem of his shirt in both hands. His eyes brimmed with tears. “I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you think.” We set off for the hospital, Lynn following in my pickup. The boy sat beside me in the passenger seat, his body pressed to the door, face against the window, the seatbelt strap clenched in one hand at his waist. With each bump in the road, he turned to look at Jack. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Alan,” he said. “How old are you, Alan?” “Seventeen.” “Seventeen. Seventeen. And have you ever been with a woman, Alan?” Alan looked at me. His face drained of color. His hand tightened on the seatbelt. “It’s a simple question, Alan. I’m asking you: Have you been with a woman?” “No,” Alan said. “No, sir.” “Then how do you know you’re gay?” In back, Jack began to stir. He moaned, then grew silent. Alan watched him. 4 “Look at me, Alan,” I said. “I asked you a question. If you’ve never been with a woman, then how do you know you’re gay?” “I don’t know,” Alan said.
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